


Evil Night Together

by noblescientist



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Gen, and you know most of this isn't really discussed, er. bullshit pseudoscience ahoy, it sounds good but i'm literally going off of a high school anatomy class
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblescientist/pseuds/noblescientist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris wakes up in a lab, which is exactly the sort of place a BSAA agent doesn't want to find himself.</p>
<p>This fic is entirely composed of torture, blood, and anatomical jargon littering science I have not actually studied at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evil Night Together

 

Chris awoke in a strange place.

He tried to think back to the last thing he’d been doing—filling out a BSAA report. It was late, he remembered, and he’d probably fallen asleep at his desk, mid-report.

But this wasn’t the office.

He blinked, still groggy, and looked around. It was dark, but as he looked around, he could see smooth, light-coloured walls, a drop ceiling, and tables around the room. The tables were gleaming in the dim light, giving them a metallic sheen.

The agent started to sweat. He was in a lab. He was in a lab and his limbs would hardly move. He felt sluggish, as though he’d been drugged. That was probably exactly what happened, in fact, since whoever had moved him from the office to the lab had to get him there without waking him up, and while he wasn’t exactly a light sleeper, he was sure he’d’ve woken under normal circumstances if someone had bodily moved him to some unknown location. As slow as his body was moving, his mind was racing ahead, trying to take in all he could about the room, even though he could hardly see, trying to figure a way out, though the only exit he could see was one set of double doors, and he had no idea what the layout of the building was beyond those doors.

There were footsteps in the dark. He turned his head towards them and found himself staring into pitch darkness. His eyes widened, trying desperately to penetrate the lightlessness of the room, but to no avail. He was breathing rapidly now, and a chuckle accompanied the footsteps.

“Now, now, Chris, there’s no need to panic. We’re all alone.”

“Wesker,” he pronounced, trying to envenomate each syllable, but finding that it came out more like a drowsy sigh.

As the blond stepped closer, Chris could make out his vague outline in the dull glow from outside the doors across the room. He seemed as hale and fit as ever, his broad shoulders and chest filling out the white coat he wore. Chris’ gaze lingered for a moment. It was a lab coat. Why on earth would he be wearing a lab coat?

Suddenly, a brilliant white light flashed to life above him. He clamped his eyes shut with a groan. Another chuckle reached his ears.

“I’m sure you’re probably wondering what the hell you’re doing here, no?”

Chris opened one eye to squint at Wesker. He still wore his characteristic sunglasses, and the lab coat was a stark contrast to his black turtleneck. Chris licked his dry lips before answering.

“The hell do you think?”

Wesker smirked and held up one gloved hand. It was holding a scalpel. “I _think_ you should pay better attention.”

Both of Chris’ eyes were open now, his attention riveted on the implement his former Captain held. The only thing in his mind was that he would be dissected alive.

“What are you gonna do to me?” Chris demanded, though his voice was still weak.

Wesker’s smirk grew wider. He started walking around the table Chris was lying on, gesturing with the scalpel as he spoke.

“Do you know, Chris, that it’s actually more difficult to slice through fatty tissue than the connective tissue around a muscle? That, for example, a human thigh—“ here he traced a finger along Chris’ leg— “takes more effort to cut into than the pectoral muscle, or bicep?”

Chris struggled to get away, but only succeeded in lifting one foot a few inches before it fell back onto the table with a thud, moving one arm such that his hand fell limply over the table’s edge. Wesker reached over him to move it back, hardly breaking his stride.

“In fact,” he continued conversationally, “the tautness of the flesh of a muscular limb is what makes it so much easier to cut. Fatty tissue will move under a knife, and the blade won’t cut as cleanly.”

Chris cringed as Wesker brought the scalpel down, but he only sliced away the tee shirt Chris was wearing. He ‘tsk’ed under his breath.

“Oh, Chris, don’t flinch. Where’s that fearless intensity I’m so used to fighting?”

He punctuated the question with a quick cut, high across Chris’ chest. Chris hissed through his teeth, watching his blood well up from the wound.

“Now, you see, that hardly took any effort.”

The scalpel came to rest just above the cargo pocket of Chris’ right pant leg and carved upwards, through the seam and deep into his flesh. He cried out inarticulately.

“On the other hand,” Wesker continued, flicking blood from the blade and inadvertently spattering his lab coat, “a sharp edge will do wonders. Not that there’s much fat on you, of course, but the thigh does tend to collect it, particularly along the lateral sides.”

Chris’ eyes were starting to water. Wesker very abruptly leaned close to his face, sick pleasure evident in the twist of his lips. Chris looked away, not wanting to see his pitiful reflection in those sunglasses.

“Now that’s not something I’ve seen often,” the scientist sneered. “Could it be that you finally understand your situation enough to fear?” He seized Chris’ jaw, forcing him to face him, the scalpel perilously close to his left cheekbone. “Nobody can save you this time, Chris! There is no partner to come to your rescue at the last moment! You’re on your own, and for once in your miserable life, you are at someone else’s mercy, entirely helpless!”

He released Chris roughly, the scalpel blade leaving a gash in his cheek. Chris grunted and clenched his jaw, feeling the blood leave a warm trail across his face.

Wesker had crossed to his left side and blew on the fresh trail of blood. Chris shivered involuntarily. Wesker made a displeased sound in the back of his throat.

“That’s unfortunate. I had thought that sedative would be working for a bit longer.”

Chris moved his legs experimentally. He was making little more progress than he had earlier; what was Wesker talking about?

“Actually, blood flow does interesting things to the skin’s elasticity, as well,” Wesker said suddenly, as though it had just occurred to him. “Dead flesh is oddly rubbery to cut through. With a living being, only the dermis is rubbery; the tissue beneath, still being alive, is rather different. Imagine, if you would, cutting up a raw chicken breast, and you may be close. Though, of course, the type of tissue makes the consistency vary somewhat, but I digress.”

Chris was starting to feel light-headed. His leg, in particular, was gushing blood, and the wound on his chest was bleeding freely, the blood starting to pool in the hollow of his clavicle.

“Interestingly, on the subject of blood flow, the proximity of a cut to the body also creates a variance. A more distal cut—“ a quick slash to Chris’ left hand, and a groan from Chris— “will usually bleed more than a proximal one—“ another, this time along his bicep, producing a whine— “since the joints, and therefore the ostial vessels, are better protected. Of course, were the main blood vessels to even be nicked, let alone severed…”

He pressed the scalpel against Chris’ neck, directly over his jugular vein. Chris' breath started coming more shakily, his heart hammering in his ribcage, but Wesker only laughed and withdrew the blade.

“I’ve waited _years_ to see that sort of primal terror cross your face, Chris! But don’t worry, I have no intention of killing you so quickly.”

Wesker continued his leisurely walk around the table, and his discourse on dissection resumed.

“Blood flow through muscle is another interesting subject, I find. When one incises along the muscle, going ‘with the grain,’ as it were, the muscle will bleed, of course, as the incision is an interruption of blood flow between muscle fibres, but cutting across the muscle produces an overflow effect, as if the blood were too much for the muscle to contain.”

The scientist pressed the scalpel into Chris’ skin just beneath his navel, dragging it almost to his belt before lifting it again, eliciting a throaty scream through clenched teeth, tears squeezing out from between eyelids clamped shut. Chris opened his eyes, his vision blurred by tears, and tried to blink the fluid away. He could just make out Wesker’s face, leaning over his again, a toothy grin distorting his features.

“I’d forgotten how expressive your face was, Chris.”

“F-fuck you,” the agent bit out. Wesker laughed, a harsh, guttural sound, before planting one elbow next to his ex-subordinate’s ear.

“You wouldn’t be able to handle that even if you weren’t bleeding out on a lab table.” He straightened, adjusting his lab coat. “It’s a shame. Your stamina would make you a fine test subject, but your stubbornness would require a… chemical deterrent, and I’m afraid that would alter my results. Though, I could always use a few more lapdogs.”

“Then go find a Cerberus,” Chris retorted. His voice was losing power again. He couldn’t last much longer.

“I think you’d be surprised at how well they suit that purpose, Chris… they’re at least smart enough not to bite the hand that feeds them, unlike ordinary zombie dogs.” Wesker paused for a moment, tapping his chin with the fingers not holding the scalpel. “I’m sure I had a few more things to demonstrate… but I’m not sure I’ll have the chance. I do have other obligations.”

Wesker placed the scalpel on a nearby tray, discarded his black nitrile gloves, and clicked off the light. Chris heard, rather than saw, the other male walking away. A sudden sense of panic that he would be left alone overtook him.

“Wait,” he called weakly. “Where are you going? Wesker?”

There was no response.

“Wesker… wait…” Chris tried to sit up, to get off the table, to run after him, but only succeeded in rolling off the edge of the table and knocking the tray of implements to the cold tile floor, where he lay, facedown, as he lost consciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, it's fun to write villains. This was literally me deciding to write bloody villain porn.
> 
> Also this fic is a couple of years old, I don't write as quickly as my posts might lead you to believe.


End file.
